Ohhhhhhhhhhhh anger.
Anger of the greatest caliber, I swear to you. I don't know what is going on here, but I plan to find out. Quietly, of course. Quietly is how I do things. Quietly is what is expected of me. I mean, look at me. Brown curls, brown eyes, glasses. This look automatically gives people the impression that I'm a bookworm, and that quiet is what I do best.
And I am. And it is.
But that doesn't mean that I don't have a curiosity fit to match Mush's, or that I didn't feel anger as indignant as Blink's was when he shouted, "They jacked up the price! Can you believe that? Ten cents a hundred! You know, it's bad enough that we gotta eat what we don't sell! Now they jacked up the price! Can you believe that?!"
It also doesn't mean that I didn't feel like asking the same burning question that Mush did, "It don't make no sense. With all the money Pulitzer's making, why would he gouge us?"
It also doesn't mean that I wasn't feeling as bitter as Racetrack when he muttered, "Cause he's a tightwad, that's why."
Just because I don't say these things doesn't mean that I don't feel them. No one seems to understand that. Well, almost no one.
While Jack, David, and Boots were trekking themselves to Brooklyn to deal with the possible wrath of Spot Conlon, I had been sent, along with Bumlets and Skittery, to Queens.
I could handle that. Queens was…well; they weren't the rough, tough nasty boys you get in Brooklyn. They also weren't the type that flock to Harlem. They're Blink's type of people, passionate and outspoken. The Bronx, where Crutchy volunteered to go, puts on a tough Brooklyn-like facade, but really, they're usually pretty nice guys.
Queens is a strange place, let me tell you. They have more female newsies there than anywhere in the City, including Midtown, which has a few. I'm thinking that it may be the name that draws them to Queens, the girls. They also have a Lodging-house, but while ours is strictly boys only; theirs has girls on the first floor, beyond the lobby, and boys upstairs. The boys live in pretty close quarters with the girls, and as a result, are usually a little mellower than the boys you would normally meet.
So as we were walking, Skittery led the conversation in that voice of his—soft, calm and level. He always seems to be sensible, never letting himself get excited or angry. He gives off the impression of a person incapable of emotion, but when you ask him about his girl…well, just don't. He goes on for years. But his brown eyes, usually so serene, light up, and his smile is nearly blinding. That kid has a spectacular smile; when he lets you see it, at least.
Anyway, we were walking to Queens, which is no stroll, those thirteen miles, and Skittery was talking about, you guessed it, his girl. Now, granted, she is downright beautiful. Elizabeth is one of those rare gems that you find amongst the rubble of the shops the girls work in. Light brown hair, long and shining, light brown eyes, full lips, high cheekbones…Skittery is one lucky young man to have snagged such a jewel.
"And so I handed her the rose, and she smiled one of those smiles—ya know, the ones ya can't describe 'cause they're so great?" He was beaming. I felt like saying 'yeah Skittery, I know that kind of smile. It's the kind you have right now.'
But I didn't say anything. I just smiled and concentrated on walking in the right direction. Bumlets gave me a sideways glance and a little smile. I furrowed my eyebrows at him, not entirely comprehensive as to what he was trying to convey.
"That Specs, huh Skitt?" he said. Skittery looked at him, then jerked his head sideways to look at me. "Look at him. He don't ever say much, but ya can almost see the wheels a-turnin' in that mind a his."
Skittery, who had refocused his eyes on Bumlets, now looked back at me. As his eyes bored into me, searching my face, I felt it grow hot. God, he was so good-looking. Not the time, Specs, I thought, somewhat guiltily, I may add.
"Specs is smart. Got a lot goin' on in that brain a his. He just doesn't wanna let anyone in on it." Skittery spoke in that tone he used for all aspects of life unrelated to Elizabeth, low and confidently composed, without a trace of the accent that most of us had.
"Maybe you two shouldn't talk about me like I'm not in the vicinity," I said casually, my voice also accent-free.
"I don't know what 'vicinity' means, Skitt, but it seems like Specs wants in on our conversation," Bumlets spoke, his 'New Yorker' accent soft, almost eloquent as a result from his creamy, smooth voice. His voice held no animosity, no derision. Bumlets doesn't have it in him to be unpleasant.
I broke out with a tentative smile. I'm sure they could hear the Halleluiah chorus.
We walked the remaining miles—southwest to the Brooklyn Bridge, a mile or so across that monstrosity, then northwest to Queens—in a comfortable silence occasionally broken by bouts of light, chit-chatty conversation.
We heard through the grapevine that the Queens newsies always ate lunch at the same restaurant, appropriately named Queenie's.
Once we got there, however, our quest had all been for nothing. We should have known, though, should have seen it coming. No borough does anything even remotely drastic and/or risky without the guaranteed backing of Brooklyn.
We pulled their leaders out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk just outside.
Major, co-leader of Queens, gave us a half-hearted smile as soon as we'd finished our explanation. He ran a hand through his golden blonde hair, and it shagged into his piercing green eyes. Looking slightly uncomfortable, he ran a strong hand along his defined jaw line, rubbing the golden skin in a hesitating manner.
It was Window, his female counterpart, who answered. Window is as pretty as Major is handsome, which is saying a lot. But they're different as night and day. Where Major is all blonde and green, light and golden, that where Window is dark. Her hair is long and black, plaited into two twin French braids behind her ears. Her eyes, big and doe-like, are black as pitch and sparkling. Her skin is a perfect, unblemished brown, and she's got these hands that are like a pianist's, long and graceful, even if her fingernails are dirty and ragged from nervous biting. The only thing marring her perfection is a long, raised scar on her left cheek. I don't know where she got that scar, and I don't think I'll ever find out.
But she looked right at us, her hands folded calmly in front of her, her skirt swaying in the breeze that blew so sweetly that day. "What about Brooklyn?" She asked, her gruff New York accent not quite matching the engaging pitch of her voice.
It was Skittery who took over while Bumlets and I stood there, not quite knowing what to say. "Jack is talkin' to him now."
Major smiled. That kid likes to smile. "Well, boys? When you hear ol' Conlon's answer, you let us know."
"But—" Bumlets began. Major, still smiling, looking like a Greek god, interrupted him.
"I'm sorry, fellas. But we," he motioned to himself and Window, "Can't put our newsies in danger of losin' money and their home unless we know we got the backin' of Brooklyn's fist."
So with that, they walked back into Queenie's, still smiling apologetically at us.
"Well, that was thirteen useless miles," Bumlets commented good-naturedly as we rounded the corner on our way back to the Bridge.
"Damn straight," replied Skittery, squinting into the sun. Oh, that look suited him. Made him look all rugged and manly. Aaaaand still not the time, idiot, I scolded myself. When will be the time, huh? I asked myself. I had no answer.
As were approaching the Bridge, we almost ran smack into Dave, Jack, and Boots, who were just now heading out toward Brooklyn. They explained about their meeting with some reporter, Denton.
"So, what'd they say over in Queens?" Jack asked. I could almost see his subconscious rubbing its hands together in excitement.
Skittery cleared his throat and threw each of us a look. "Well, all I gotta say is you better hurry to see Spot. 'Cause Queens said they won't be doin' nothin' without…what'd Major say?" He turned to us.
""Brooklyn's fist," I supplied helpfully. It was about the third time I'd spoken during our little excursion.
"Yeah. That. So I definitely think you should get down there," Skittery finished.
Jack nodded as if he'd expected this, but David looked a little indignant. "Well, what? They can't do anything without this Spot Conlon there to help them?"
I looked him straight in the eye. "No, they can't. You're new, David, you don't understand. Brooklyn is like the glue that holds us all together when we get into this type of stuff. We need to know that they're there to save our hides if we need them to."
Everyone stared at me. I do believe that's the most they've ever heard me say at all at once since I got here when I was seven, nine years ago.
But David was nodding as if he understood, which I'm sure he did. David is a smart guy; he catches on quickly.
So we parted ways, and we headed back to Manhattan to hopefully scrounge up enough money to buy a decent lunch.
Skittery was looking at me out of the corner of his eye as we walked, I saw. "What?" I asked after somewhere around the neighborhood of five minutes of this.
"So where'd that little speech come from, huh Specs?" I was about to laugh, thinking his question ridiculous, but then I noticed Bumlets looking at me in expectation.
"My brain." I paused. "There's a lot going on in there; I just didn't want to let you in on it."
They stared at me. Slowly, ever so slowly, grins crept onto their faces and they laughed.
"Ya know, Specs?" Skittery said, companionably throwing an arm around my shoulder, which made me shiver pleasantly, "You're alright."
And as we walked the long walk to Tibby's, we talked, the three of us. And you know? It was just as comfortable as the contented silence we'd walked to Queens in.
I'm thinking that maybe I could get used to this not-so-quiet thing. I like being quieted, observant. But this talking thing? It works too.
{EndNotes}
Ohhhh I love Specs. He gives me great joy. He's so ELOQUENT! And we'll be coming back to him, because look at the poor kid! He just can't figure himself out! He's slashy, yes….but then he's not sure, 'cause women fascinate him, and he doesn't wanna THINK about the possibility. Gah, I love him. He gives me great joy.
Look at that cleavage!
Glimm
-looks at her closer- hmm. Yeah. Keira Knightley. She. Is. Funny. Watch the commentary to Pirates of the Caribbean—the one with her….you'll understand the cleavage thing from that—I think she talks about cleavage about six times. Skittles, am I right? Maybe YOU should use that closer….-hides!-
Lovely, lovely Orlando….can I shag him, now Skittles? Please? Are you done with him, Leg, and Will yet?